Grey’s Anatomy has ruined me. That’s what I’ve come to realize this weekend. See, I’ve been just aching for a holiday. Getting up and doing things, any things, had become such a chore to me, as it does most every year at this point. Where November brings on this sense of tapering off. Yes, 2013 is plummeting to her death, along with my will to do anything other than my select few preferred nothings. And I don’t expect you to understand it at all. But the only thing in the world I’ve wanted recently is just a day where I was required to do and be and say and accomplish nothing.
Then the Universe answered my plea in her usual dastardly manner and gave me the cold of a lifetime.
As I laid in bed on Saturday and Sunday and Monday, I thought, “Now Universe, you know this is not at all what I had in mind.” And she pretended to have no idea what I was talking about and ran off with Winter, no doubt to plot another evil conspiracy against us all. Early sunsets. Frost on windshields. Frozen pipes. You know how they play.
Anyway, in the midst of all of the sniffling and snuffling and general miserable-ness, I fit in a decent amount of Netflix. (I didn’t read because I was angry, again, about the ending of The Hunger Games. Which is another story for another day.)
After searching and trying out and giving up on numerous TV series, I came to that realization.
The one mentioned above.
That Grey’s Anatomy has ruined me.
It’s the main reason I can’t enjoy TV anymore. Because nothing measures up, as far as dramas go. Except probably Sherlock, but good grief! Did they have to wait clear until January to explain how the man jumped off a building without dying?
This was a post about TV, and I’m trying really hard not to feel totally lame for it.